


His Butler, By His Side

by amindaya



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Anachronisms, Classism (from Charles), Demon!Erik, Fantasized/sexualized violence, Gen, Implied character death that does not occur within story (Charles), Inherent power inequality (master/servant), Minor character death (Azazel), Non-sexual bondage (Charles), Past character deaths (Charles' parents), Shaving, Spoilers: first 4 episodes of Black Butler, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:52:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amindaya/pseuds/amindaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Black Butler AU. Lord Earl Charles Xavier has developed a reputation for employing outcast mutants on his grand estate, but that’s fine. Erik, his butler, is more than capable of defending it. His capabilities are quite numerous, in fact. One would think a man so startlingly competent had made a deal with the devil. One would be nearly correct.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Butler, By His Side

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [xmenreversebang](http://www.xmenreversebang.livejournal.com). Endless thanks to [unforgott3n](http://www.unforgott3n.livejournal.com) for her speedy and life-saving beta, and to [tsuki_yuki](http://www.tsuki-yuki.livejournal.com) for her fabulous, amazingly gorgeous [prompt](http://sesame4.tumblr.com/post/26762175796/xmrb-d-black-butler-au-i-think-ill-post-more) that y'all should TOTALLY go look at right now and tell her how lovely it is, and all the people in the chat room for their support.

“Good morning, Lord Xavier,” is what wakes him.

“Good morning, Erik.” Charles shuffles to sit up in bed, sliding to the edge. His eyes are still closed, chasing the phantoms of his dreams. Pleasant, this time. Happy memories. He suspects that one of his staff is sleeping in late…or dozing off.

He doesn’t startle when Erik’s cool fingers touch his ankle to draw his foot forward. Erik is excellent at projecting his intentions. Charles points his toes so that Erik can slide the silk onto his foot, and as he fastens the sock garter, Charles finally forces himself to open his eyes. He will need to stand soon. There is tea on the bedside cart, waiting for him.

“Be patient, my Lord,” Erik says. He has fastened the other garter and his head is still bowed, near Charles’ knees. His hair looks as soft and smooth as it usually does—but Charles thinks it must really be quite stiff because it stays resolutely in place as if out of fear of its possessor. He doesn’t fail to note the amused quirk of Erik’s lips as Charles stands, takes one step away from the bed, and lifts his arms. 

Erik is efficient. He does not linger. Still, Charles stares straight ahead as Erik pulls his night gown over his head. The cold air is shocking on his skin, sensation no longer muffled by sleep. He closes his eyes and feels the warm wet cloth across his face, down his chest and beneath his arms, removing the night’s perspiration. Then there is the familiar feeling of Erik’s long fingers combing through his hair, his hands aided by the additional silver-plated brush that Erik favors. 

For a moment, Charles wonders if Erik will direct him to the chair for a shave, but not this morning, evidently. 

He is cold for only a moment longer before Erik slides a ruffled silk shirt onto his arms, buttoning it with quick fingers. Charles does not look down at his chest, but they must be the pearl buttons, because he can feel their smooth round shapes slide against Erik’s thumbs, the sensation directed deliberately. Charles steps, one at a time, into the legs of the trousers near his feet, and Erik draws them up his legs by the fastenings, gold threaded into the very fabric. The waistband pinches beneath his ribcage—he makes a mental note to have this pair taken to the tailor’s, which Erik receives with a slight tip of his head, quickly unfastening the waistband and drawing the trousers down, urging Charles into a newer pair.

As Erik attaches the braces, he turns to reach for the waistcoat and tailcoat, and Charles sends a probing question when he sees the complementary shades of blue and the gold embellishments. “Fine attire for a day about the manor,” he comments.

Erik says, “Your meeting with Mister Hank McCoy is at noon.”

“I was under the impression that Mister McCoy would be meeting me next Thursday.”

“He insisted upon the urgency of his meeting with you at your earliest convenience.”

It is, in fact, an inconvenience, but Charles nonetheless resigns himself to having a lighter purse by this evening. He tilts his chin up so that Erik can tie the striped cravat around his neck, fluffing and pinning it in what is doubtless the latest style. Erik keeps himself informed.

“Perfection,” Erik says, stepping back and admiring his work. 

“Well done,” Charles says, catching a reflection of himself in Erik’s mind, ignoring the tints of shadow that swarm around his mental figure, eerie and frightening. He withdraws before he can get carried away by Erik’s thoughts—he usually chooses to keep his mind open to Charles, but the moments when it is most inviting are the moments that Charles has learned to avoid with all prudence. Charles has seen and overcome many horrible things, but Erik does love to test him.

\---

Erik greets their guest at the door as Charles waits in the study, setting up a game of chess on the low table. McCoy is proficient, though not his preferred partner. McCoy nods curtly as Erik opens the large front doors to receive him—his impression of Erik is continually tinged with the feeling of being silently mocked, which he finds particularly unjust coming from a lowly butler, and which Erik encourages with the most profound glee.

“Right this way, sir,” Erik says. Charles must filter away the layers of sound in order to understand Erik’s speech as heard through his mind. It has grown easier over these past seven years, and he regularly checks in or makes requests, but he chooses to stay with Hank McCoy as Erik leads him through the entrance hall and up the main staircase. Though he and Hank are no longer on the fondest of terms, he prefers it. It is a novelty to read someone who is not accustomed to the halls Charles walks every day—and Hank’s mind, though remarkably complex and intelligent, though not entirely human, is not warped and twisted into something inhuman either, and is much easier to follow. 

When Hank hears Erik’s voice, he notices only a smooth, pleasant baritone, accented with the barest hint of condescension. Erik is very discreet.

Hank’s thoughts are preoccupied with the opulent staircase, the lush tapestries, and the marble surfaces. His avarice is of a curious variety—he sees the indication of wealth, and desires not to possess those trinkets, but instead imagines the alternate applications. He sees an opportunity wasted. Hank has clear images in his head of the machine he intends to build from the donation he has come to seek from Charles. And also of the better, more efficient machine he could build with a larger donation. 

When Erik leads him into the room and bows slightly before leaving to retrieve the tea, Charles greets Hank in the manner that the man expects, though he would like to be a great deal colder and unwelcoming. He takes comfort in the fact that Hank does not expect much. Any warmth Charles might care to demonstrate is wasted on Hank—in fact makes him uncomfortable. He is here on business.

_Even his thoughts,_ Charles muses, distanced from himself, _are ordered and observational._ Factual and direct. Verbose. He withdraws from McCoy’s mind.

McCoy bows lower than strictly necessary; always has. Those expensive spectacles of his nearly fall from his face. “Good afternoon, Lord Xavier. Thank you for consenting to meet with me.”

“Welcome, Mister McCoy.”

“I do hope your travels were agreeable,” Charles continues, when McCoy finds himself unable to find an opening. He has always been somewhat flustered around Charles, after what happened.

“Very. I’m happy to see the estate is doing well,” he says, examining the family portrait above the fireplace, eyes sliding away from the figure furthest to the left. “The grounds look even lovelier than I remember.”

“My staff is very attentive.”

This sets his thin mouth into a frown, his eyes hazy in thought and memory. “Ah, yes, I noticed you’d retained the same butler. He must be uncommonly good. Are you still living out here all by yourself?” 

Very familiar questions for a man here on business, even after Charles has made such a monumental effort to forgive and forget. “In fact, my sister is expected in a few weeks’ time.” 

“Ah.” His eyes skitter sideways and Charles feels smug for a moment before the waves of regret and uncomfortable guilt slosh unpleasantly against his awareness. It never is worth it. And why should he say such a thing, when Hank has been nothing but apologetic? It’s not charitable.

“Please sit, Hank,” he directs, and Hank, eager to shift the conversation, does. 

“Would you care for a game of chess?” he asks. 

As Hank assents and reaches out to make the first move, a small table wheels up next to them, soon followed by his butler. Hank does not notice. Charles raises an eyebrow at Erik, who only bows slightly and begins to pour the tea, his wrist an elegant line. He places Charles’ cup directly into his hand but sets Hank’s on the edge of the table, where he will undoubtedly forget it is there. Erik has chosen the cheap china, he notices, white with small yellow flowers and a gold trim along the edge of the saucers. Perhaps Erik thinks Hank will break them, or is trying to subtly insult their guest. It is something Erik would do.

Now Charles has become distracted. He searches McCoy’s recent memory for the question he just asked, responds appropriately: “Well, as you know, my father was very dedicated to the promotion of free public education. I don’t feel that certain causes can coincide, Mister McCoy.” He should know better than most that some elements are simply incompatible.

But McCoy is not deterred, and Charles listens as he becomes more and more frenzied, explaining his latest invention.

“This would promote education, though, certainly. This is beyond the scope of anything previously imagined—forgive me if I can’t convey the magnitude. Think if schools were not necessary, if all information could be gleaned instantaneously.” He moves a piece, barely even looking at the board, an ill-considered strategy. “Why, a person could sit in his own home and have access to information originated thousands of miles away, without the necessity of a telephone. In fact, it would be an improvement upon the telephone; it would revolutionize communication.”

“Hank, I’m afraid your chances of winning are not favorable.”

McCoy looks at him uncertainly, then follows the gesture of Charles’ hand to the board, where Charles has captured McCoy’s queen and, besides a handful of pawns, left him with only his king, a bishop, and both rooks.

A wrinkle appears between McCoy’s eyebrows as he studies the board and Charles sends a jolt of annoyance at Erik when he notices the discrepancy. _No cheating._

_He didn’t even notice me doing it._

Charles thinks, privately: _Nor did I, for that matter._

“Hank,” he says again, to draw his attention. He brings the cup of tea to his lips and finds it at a perfect temperature, though he does it more for the fleeting novelty of silence than an urge to drink. It’s not something he often allows himself to crave: the potential of words unsaid, crowded in the mind but not given voice—such an enjoyable tension. “I would contend that there is a distinct difference between accessing information and learning it, and between learning it and then applying it. Can your device teach a child to think?”

The color rises in McCoy’s face, and he examines the board with a renewed determination as he organizes his thoughts. Charles can see them, words like bricks pulled from the side of a building, slotted and interchanged with others to create a more pleasing façade. Or what he thinks will please Charles. 

“Hank, this design is amongst the most innovative I have seen, but I continually question your motivation. Your goal is not to replace, but to improve and incorporate. The next step will follow naturally. Change cannot occur so radically.”

Hank is devastated—more so than Charles intended. He interprets at once the origin of his discontent, memories of a similar conversation— _you cannot force something into what it is not, Hank,_ and _it behooves me to inform you..._

Charles halts the thoughts immediately and completely, and Hank relaxes back into his chair.

“I will approve funding for this on the condition that you make significant adjustments to the device itself. It seems to me that the helmet would be impractical, ambitious. Perhaps a more complete, grounded experience. Sound, touch, sight.”

Hank’s thoughts are whirring again, mostly calculations. The sense of relief is Charles’ own.

“Hank. You do understand what I’m saying, yes? I would like it to function as a tool. _Facilitate_ learning.”

“Of course, yes. Yes.” He stands. “Thank you so much for your time, Lord Xavier.” He bows low, and Erik is there to see him out.

Hank’s cup of tea sits untouched on the corner of the table until Erik removes it.

Charles could so easily remove the boy’s existence, if it distresses him so. It would seem only logical.

“Erik,” he warns. Erik is so good at projecting, so subtle, that Charles can sometimes only catch him after a few words.

“Don’t you sometimes wonder if those are your thoughts?” Erik asks, setting the tea back on the cart and then sending it away with a gesture of his fingers. He doesn’t require the hand motion, Charles knows. One of Erik’s few affectations. Charles’ eyes are drawn to the length of Erik’s fingers, and return to Erik’s mild expression. Erik’s own gaze is fixed on Charles.

“I made a promise to my sister.”

Though he doesn’t deserve the large measures assured by that promise.

Charles begins to scold Erik again, but before he can open his mouth, he realizes that it was him, that time, and glares into his tea as Erik smirks and politely offers him another cup.

\--

Sean pokes his head into the study, eyes guarded, stepping carefully. 

“Ah, Sean, please come in.”

“Mister Erik said you needed to talk to me,” he says, standing gingerly in the middle of the room, glancing nervously up at the chandelier, angling himself away from the windows.

“Really, now, there’s no need to be frightened.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s all replaceable, Sean.” Well, the chandelier is one of a kind but Charles is certain he could find an approximation. 

“Yes, sir.”

Charles sighs. “We can go out into the garden if you’d like.”

Sean’s eyes widen comically. “I don’t want to put you out, sir.”

“Then trust that I have complete faith in you and in your control.”

Sean glances again at the chandelier and says, “Perhaps we ought to be walking out in the garden, sir.”

\--

He breaks the news gently, but Sean is disappointed all the same, which Charles expected. Still, Sean acknowledges that this has been a long time coming, that he knew what would happen after he broke the third China set.

Charles realizes the direction of his thoughts and stops him, startled. “No, Sean, you’ve misunderstood me, I’m afraid. I’m not asking you to leave. I just think we should find a more appropriate duty for you. There’s plenty of work to be done. Perhaps Armando could use some help with the grounds.”

“Being outside would be nice,” Sean admits, though he does eye the stone statues along the walkway with concern. “Armando won’t need my help, though, he’s so good at everything.”

“He won’t need it, but I’m sure he would welcome it.” Armando has, more than any of his employees save Erik, the most astounding work ethic—he can accomplish any task Charles sets for him. Which of course means that Charles must restrain himself from asking too much. He thinks Sean would be the perfect partner. Or, at least, the second most perfect. But he cannot send Alex out to the gardens, even though his power has destroyed the kitchen more times than Charles can count and he has no real talent for food preparation, because then neither Alex nor Armando would accomplish anything.

“Alright then,” Sean agrees. “But then who will be preparing the Blue and Gold rooms for Miss Raven’s visit, sir? Should I be doing that first?”

“I’ve actually just found a lovely young woman. Very extraordinary gifts: wings with genuine flight capability and acid projectiles with a range of 15 yards. She’ll be arriving tomorrow, I believe.”

“Oh, a girl.” 

“Yes, Sean, a girl.” 

He leaves Sean with Armando near the stables after briefly explaining the new arrangements—Armando understands immediately without any additional instructions from Charles that he is to act as a subtle positive influence on the boy—and walks on his own back towards the house. He passes briefly over the bright points of awareness he can sense moving around inside. Alex is in the kitchen, muttering over the ruins of the midday supper. Erik is on his way to salvage it. As usual, Janos is just…there, in a room to the front of the manner, standing idle and quiet. Janos is his least destructive ward by far, and they share a common taste for fine teas, though he has never been very talkative. He does a small share of the household accounting. 

Behind him, Sean’s thoughts are filled with relief and gratitude, overpowering even his anxiety, and Armando’s superprocessing brain is designing a rock garden, explaining to Sean the duties of the groundsman, and compiling a list of tasks in descending order of priority. A large portion of his mind is devoted to thinking about Alex, which is not unusual, and from which Charles steers away out of respect.

When he sees the kitchen through Erik’s eyes, he wishes he had steered away from that as well. It seems almost as though the sight of the charred and twisted stove causes him physical pain, seated deep in his chest, but he pushes it away in his memory and the relief has the immediacy of another mind’s ease. 

_Shouldn’t be looking in, Charles. I have this handled._ His mind is gentle: look away, look away, nothing to see.

He sends a wordless acknowledgement, but remains with Erik as Alex apologizes profusely, as Erik smoothes the appliance into a recognizable shape. Erik’s mind is careful, blank. 

“Why do I suffer these trials?” Erik asks the ceiling, in an effort to be comical, to distract. Alex cowers.

_The knowledge that you’ll get to kill me and consume my soul when my goals are fulfilled, I would venture to guess._

Erik’s grin is sharp and quick, and terrifies Alex, has him nodding and promising to correct the mistake right away sir, right away, won’t happen again, sir. Erik is distracted now, though, speaking to Charles.

_And why are you following me, Charles? Nothing to do? Shall I bring you something diverting?_

Erik frequently projects any number of horrific images at him. Death, destruction, disease. He shows Charles what he has lived through, what he has caused, sometimes fantasies of what he _plans_ for Charles: often the same image, with only the occasional variation…always bloody.

But he never thinks of fire.

Once again, Charles is reminded that he did not buy Erik’s protection for himself. He is almost certain the thought is his own.

_I think a game of chess would suit me_ , he sends.

A fraction of a second passes. _The board awaits you in the study. The first move, as always, is yours._

Charles nods. They are both aware of that.

\---

The game serves its purpose: Charles is so absorbed that when he looks up from the board at the knock on the door to see Erik standing there, for a moment he thinks it is a copy—that another Erik is still downstairs in the kitchen, moving his knight forward to claim Charles with savage efficiency, beckoning him forward even though Charles knows that it’s only a trap, meant to entice, excite, and then, finally, conquer.

“Do you think you’ll stand a better chance if you’re present?” he inquires with a grin, thumb and forefinger resting on the shaft of his bishop, preparing to slide it forward. Erik’s grave expression causes him to straighten and clear his throat, quickly retract his hand from the warm metal piece. When he allows his mind to open again, Erik is all business. 

“News from the Queen,” he states simply.

The tray floats to him across the room—and yes, that is the royal seal. Charles opens the letter as soon as it reaches him and reads it quickly.

“She requires our assistance. Your assistance.” Charles would never do something so undignified as chew his lip, but he’s tempted as he scans the letter for details. He looks up to find Erik watching him, eyes unfocused—has a flash of red and wet that he quickly squashes. “Though…” He swallows, mouth rather dry—he believes he left his tea on the desk. “Though it would be a great inconvenience to send you now, with Raven arriving so soon.”

“Charles.” Erik steps inside, closes the door, and locks it.

“Yes.” Charles turns his frustration to the chess board, setting down his bishop with an audible click that makes Erik twitch. “Of course, I shall send you.”

“It is a small matter. Easily handled.”

Charles scowls. “Yes, she chooses to employ me for _small matters_.”

“You’re under the obligation of the Queen, even as I am obliged to you. Are you unconcerned by what would happen if you refused to offer your services?”

“Stripped of my title, my lands seized. I am not unaware.” Charles replays enough memories to be inordinately tired by repetition. His recall is perfect. If he wants a reiteration of this conversation, he need only glance into his own memory, or even into Erik’s, if he dared.

“You treat it lightly but she does not. You could be dangerous, Charles.”

“We have discussed this.”

“It bears repeating.” Erik takes his seat across the table. Charles admires the lines of his posture, the point of his knee and how the curve of his calf swoops toward his ankle, draped as it is over his other leg. He sometimes looks at Erik’s bearing and wonders how anyone could smile unreservedly at him, could speak warmly to him. It is obvious what he is. Charles has never seen something more magnificently deadly. “I am your lapdog, as it is said, but we both know you could accomplish many things without me.”

“I explained this. The day that I…” He stops. “I told you. There are things I can and cannot do, that may or may not honor my family or cause greater harm to my sister.”

Erik’s counter-argument is simple. “You could find them easily, and kill them for what they did. Make them walk into a river; make them want to die.”

“I could.”

“And it baffles me that you refrain.” He reaches out with his hand to move a rook. “To have such power and keep it muzzled…”

“Limitations are not something you truly understand, Erik.” He ignores the burst of contradiction, the immediate _I’ve kept the bargain, what do you…_

“Few people do—truly understand limitations, I mean. And how flimsy they are. How easily disintegrated. The limitations set by the Queen are completely arbitrary if I choose to reject them, we both know that. I can indeed do as you say. But my limitations are not merely upon myself—if I exert that power, it will have consequences, and it will not be safe for others like me. That is why I need you, Erik. Humans need limitations; depend on them. What I do is too absolute, too incomprehensible. Violence is something they understand, and something they _think_ they can control—if only because it is more easily overlooked.”

He has to stop, to shift in his seat. The atmosphere is thick and close. He wishes Erik wouldn’t think this way, but Charles wishes a great many things. He sees it again, that familiar scene. Erik and Charles on their knees, Erik’s arms twined strongly around him, Charles’ face pressed against his effortlessly strong chest. Erik holds no knife (this time) but he can still feel his hand reaching inside him, those long elegant fingers curling into sloppy wet heat, brushing the exposed column of his spine, cradling the very bones in order to pull Charles closer. Greedy. Finally taking what’s his.

“Her Majesty thinks you a thug, Erik. Let her have her delusions, and even her rumors. It will not stop me from achieving my ends.”

Erik closes his mouth, as if realizing he has left it open. Charles knows he does not necessarily need to breathe, and certainly not so heavily. His attention is drawn to the quick swipe of Erik’s tongue, to wet his lips. His own lips feel rather dry as well. Charles feels like he could choke on the very air.

“Have I ever mentioned….the significance of this coin?” 

It seems a non-sequitur. Charles recovers soon, looks at Erik’s hand after a brief flicker of a glance elsewhere. Just to remember. Where he is. Just to see something else for a moment.

“You have not.”

Charles catches a name, Sebastian. The connotation is strange, though, conflicted. Torn between rage and pride, sorrow and absolution.

Erik glances up from the coin, letting it fall and closing it in his fist. “Sebastian was a mentor, of sorts. He made me into what I am.”

Of course, thinks Charles. We all begin. Even demons must. 

Though he does not make the inquiry, Erik continues. “I made a contract with Sebastian to receive vengeance for the death of my parents. I sought out those responsible one by one and killed them all.”

“One by one.”

Erik acknowledges Charles’ doubts with an elegant tilt of his head. “Occasionally in groups of two or more, for greatest efficiency.”

“That is the Erik I know.”

Charles’s attempt to lighten the mood succeeds only for a few moments.

“You know, Charles, you have the sort of talents we favor.”

“Vengeance and manipulation?” This should not surprise him. This should not shock him so. Erik is practical. Erik finds solutions.

“Hardly. Your soul is not vengeful enough, by far. Your ability.” His voice is low now, almost intimate, echoed through his mind at the same time so that Charles feels as if he is surrounded by it, compelled. “It would be amplified as a demon, as mine was.”

“What are you saying, Erik?” Charles feels chilled. “What are you asking.”

Erik withdraws, sits back in his chair. “I am simply remarking on a similarity between us. Isn’t it pleasant that we can find so much in common? So much in common. You’re so like me, Charles. We signed a contract, agreed to the same terms. We want the same outcome. And all these other pleasant little similarities, in addition. ”

His words are perfectly sincere, transparent with honesty, but Charles knows as well as Erik that he can only read Erik’s mind because he allows it, and that because of the bond created by their contract, Erik can also read him, for a certain value of the word—can find him anywhere, can pinpoint his location and discern his mood. For Erik, allowing Charles his telepathy is another way he chooses to accommodate him.

Despite the contract, Charles sometimes thinks that Erik’s expectations do not align with his own—that no matter what Erik claims, they do not want the same thing. Charles cannot decide if that should be a comfort.

-

He sends Erik on the Queen’s errand. Armando, adaptable to any task, delivers his evening meal, and later assists him in washing, as Erik would.

It is nothing like with Erik. 

Charles cannot sink into the warmth of the tub because Armando’s mind is forever racing. His hands with the sponge are gentle but coolly indifferent. When Charles stands to allow Armando to dress him in his nightclothes, he is struck by how terribly wrong it feels. Adept as he is, Armando should not be dressing him, should not be bathing him.

He was afraid of this.

He was terrified.

\- 

He pries his eyes open, but he doesn’t see the light creeping through his window, and it takes a moment to focus on what has woken him. His first instinct is to call out for Erik, but Erik is still on loan to the Queen; it was not he that disturbed Charles’ sleep.

He senses a brief flicker of something, a snap of thought, and turns his head, but then it is gone again, and Charles warily pulls himself into a sitting position, abruptly awake.

Erik, he thinks, and then there is a swish of air and sound, a burst of consciousness appearing out of nowhere in a split second, and Charles is engulfed in darkness.

-

It is more difficult to drag himself from the darkness the second time, and when he manages it, he is convinced he is still dreaming. He expects the forms of his parents, lit by the glow of a fire, their faces stretched in agony; he expects the constant presence of Erik, waiting, waiting seven long years, saying, “You promised to give yourself to me, Charles,” and forever smiling his polite smile as he reaches out to put his fist through Charles’ chest and squeeze his heart; he expects the men coming to take away his sister, as she kicks and screams and shifts before their very eyes; he expects the usual fare.

But what he opens his eyes to is a night terror he has never experienced—not even his mind is this cruel. Though he is reasonably certain he’s awake, he still feels like he is trapped underwater, in isolation, slow and unbalanced even as he lies still. He does not lie in darkness, but he cannot interpret what he’s seeing because it is impossible, so very wrong. The room is well-lit but cut with vertical shadows.

_Erik, come to me,_ he commands, knowing that the thought will find him, wherever he is. 

When he finds himself overcome with hilarity at the mental image of a disgruntled butler, put out by his interrupted schedule, he realizes that he is possibly panicking, and it feels strange from this angle. No perspective.

Then he realizes the origin of that feeling of wrongness, the flatness and disorientation.

The shadows surrounding him are people that do not exist.

Each figure is identical—dark suit, blank face. If Charles focuses especially hard he can distinguish individual characteristics, such as the cut of their hair, the color of their eyes. But it’s all hollow and meaningless to him as he searches for something to grasp onto and finds that he cannot.

“What have you done to me?” 

“Ah, Charles Xavier. Comfortable, I hope?” He does not recognize the voice—though he supposes he wouldn’t, as that’s as flat as the others’ expressions. It’s in a very low register, with a foreign accent—Russian, possibly. But the cadence is hard to distinguish.

He turns to look but cannot move his head very far before something cold and hard bites into his neck. He registers pressure against his skull and finally interprets the shadows at the corner of his vision—they are caused by a helmet of some sort upon his head, curving strangely to obscure his line of site. 

_Erik, I need you_ , he sends. _I need you by my side._ He knows that wherever Erik is, the thought will find him, even with his telepathic ability stifled like this. He would bet his life on it, if he ever had the inclination to make another wager after his contract with Erik. The contract is non-negotiable, binding. And because of that bond, Charles cannot escape from it—wherever he is, Erik will find him.

When he attempts to sit up, he falls painfully onto a bruised shoulder, and the metal helmet bounces against the floor and resounds in Charles’ skull like an unpleasant bell. He tests his hands to find them completely immobilized, bound tightly at the small of his back. The numbness spreading through his shoulders is likely due to the belts strapping his biceps close to his body—he is absolutely unable to wriggle free. As he continues his catalogue of injuries, he finds that his ankle is twisted, his foot starting to swell tight within his boot. 

“Look at ‘im squirm about like a warm! The migh’y _Earl_ , lyin’ broken upon th’ floor.” A new voice, a different one, Charles thinks. It’s still hollow, but it doesn’t have the rigid structure of the other, and its laughter is too high in pitch to fit the one from earlier. 

“Not very broken just yet. Soon shattered.”

Yes, he can hear the differences. It is very much like separating the layers of sound when listening in on a conversation filtered through the mind. This is the bottom-most layer. Now that he is listening, he can distinguish several sounds—the creaks and thumps of many feet, the impatient shuffle of clothing. He doesn’t recall the sounds himself, but he recognizes them from others’ memories: a child with her ear pressed to the door, listening to muffled conversation, like learning a new language. 

There are three figures that he can see, perhaps more behind him—at _least_ one behind him, the Russian, and that voice is familiar in his accumulated memory as well.

“You know,” he says, and coughs. His throat is raspy, dry. It will not do. He begins again. “I have discovered quite a remarkable effect that I feel I must share with you fellows.”

“Quiet your mouth, Xavier, you don’t need to be talking for this.”

“Naw, it’ what he’s _supposed_ to be doin’. Tellin’ us all we wants to know.”

“But we were supposed to rough him up further…”

“Quiet.” This voice comes from behind him, his familiar speaker. And Charles is certain, now. “We will hear what the earl has to say.”

_How long have I been unconscious?_ he wonders. The floor on which he lies is unfamiliar, but the wood is common, used in many fine homes. The tapestries that align the wall have no distinguishing marks, no coats of arms. He could be anywhere. There’s no way to account for travel time.

There really is only one strategy to employ.

“The common individual’s speaking voice differs along a wide range of significance from his word-forming thoughts, or the mind’s voice. We must assume it is because the sound waves that directly reach a listener’s ears are additionally echoed through a speaker’s skull, not merely experienced by the ear. It was something to which I have learned to grow accustomed. I can now recognize the…frequency, shall we say, of a person’s mind voice without ever having heard their speaking voice. As well as note the peculiarity of a mind and voice that match.”

There seem to be more thumping noises beneath him than strictly appropriate. _Is that you, Erik?_ he thinks. 

“This is useless, boss.”

“Yes, I tire of listening to his mouth, you must gag him.”

He sees the rail-thin gentleman gape. “I ain’t goin’ near ‘im.”

“Knock him out, then. I cannot stand that preaching.”

“Gentlemen, I urge you to consider the adverse consequences of rendering unconscious the only person who may be able to spare your lives.”

“It is your life you should worry about being spared.”

“Throw ‘im in the bleeding oven. Go the way of his parents—fittin’, I say.” His speech is interrupted by a crash from downstairs, like a large object displaced.

“What I meant to say…that is, my purpose in relating to you this information, is that I can very distinctly place your voice, Azazel.”

“You think I am worried about you recognizing me? There is no danger for me in what I do to you.”

The screeching noises are now alarming, and nobody in the room can doubt their unnatural cause. Charles feels a faint vibration in the floor beneath his feet, and even though he cannot read any person in the room, he thinks he knows that stillness, those looks directed behind him where Azazel must be standing: questioning, seeking assurance, perhaps even frightened. But Charles does not understand expressions as well as most. He can’t discern what frightened looks like—sometimes even confuses how it feels. 

“I will see what is happening,” Azazel says. Charles feels the disruption of air on his skin as the stale air of the room rushes to fill the void that he left. He can’t hear the swishing noise—likely because of the helmet, and the now unmistakable screams of panic downstairs—but he remembers it well enough. Janos still does not talk about what led him to seek refuge at the Xavier Estate, and Charles is not one to ask questions to which he already knows the answers.

A few seconds pass, and one man says, “He’s been gone an awfully long time.”

“He can be gone as well long as he pleases, you just wait.”

“What’s going on down there? How many men, do you think?” The man tightens his hand on his weapon. His thick mustache trembles.

“Oh, just one.”

“Shut up, you.”

There is silence. Even from downstairs. The men look to each other. There is a creak on the wood floor outside the door that has them draw their breath as one, and then, with all prim formality and humor, there is a knock on the door.

The men grasp their weapons, hands shaking and faces sweating, and train bulging eyes on the door. Charles closes his in relief and calls out. “Yes?”

“I’ve come to collect my Master,” is the reply.

“He ain’t here!” the thin man screams. “He ain’t here, so you can just be going away now, you hear me?”

The sound the door makes as it is ripped from its hinges and flung to the side is nothing when compared to the deafening rattle of their guns as they empty their weapons in Erik’s direction. It creates a haze in the air, obscuring Erik’s face. Charles curses them—the men, the bullets. They have no one to blame for this carnage but themselves. 

Through the mass of bullets hanging in midair, he thinks he sees Erik smile—not his usual smirk, but an unnaturally large, gaping thing, showing off his rows of sharp teeth. Charles sees a ripple of movement in the cloud of bullets as they turn themselves in the opposite direction, back toward whence they came, and thinks he hears Erik tut, and say, slowly and with amused disappointment, “You humans and your guns,” before redirecting the bullets to pierce through the skulls of all Azazel’s cronies. 

Charles does not watch, but he can still see it, is bombarded with the images as soon as Erik kneels next to him and carefully removes the helmet. Charles cannot help but latch onto his awareness, the strongest and brightest thing near. 

There is but one other consciousness in this house with them, and as Erik supports him down the stairs, careful of his ribs and his ankle, he sees why. 

The men are lying ungracefully along the floor. They pass too many to count, though if they were alive Charles would perhaps be able to give an estimate. The cutlery sticking from their bodies reminds Charles of the set that was gifted to him by Moira MacTaggert last season. Not in every body, though—undoubtedly sent to kill and then to return for use on the next victim. Erik is efficient. He does not waste.

When they reach the bottom of the stairs, they are deposited into an entry hall perhaps even grander than Charles’ own, covered in bodies. 

“I can see you were quite busy. I forgive you for taking such an inordinate amount of time. I had to stall.”

“I apologize.”

“It’s a wonder they didn’t kill me,” he says, and begins to shake. Erik pulls him closer to his chest, and then abandons the charade, and just swings Charles into his arms, carrying him easy the rest of the way. As they pass through the room, the other consciousness—barely there, nothing but a whisper, soon dead—shifts direction. It is coming from above them.

Charles looks up to the chandelier, and is fixed by the sight.

“I was trying to make a point,” Erik explains. 

“I believe you succeeded.”

“Shall we be going, sir?”

“A moment, Erik.”

He looks back to the twisted body of Azazel. 

“As I meant to say earlier,” he calls, echoing the words in his mind so that the man cannot escape them, “before I was so rudely interrupted: it is very peculiar that a mind and voice should match as yours does. Why do you think that is?”

Azazel glares at him, even as Charles can feel him, consumed by pain. The worst part is how his body, on pure reflex, keeps attempting to surge up and out, to pull itself away from the pain, causing new agony as that ability begins to also pull on the metal twisted through his torso, bursting from his stomach and wrapped around his collarbones. Azazel cannot leave this house without taking part of it with him.

“It’s really only common in those accustomed to telepathic communication, you see. Frequent communication. Isn’t that strange.”

Azazel’s glare is weak, and Charles lets his head rest against Erik’s shoulder as his weight becomes more solid in Erik’s arms. This is too much. He needs to be away from here, now. He cannot handle this.

“Certainly,” he murmurs to Erik, grateful that he can leave now, go home and put the Master to bed, and clean his suit. Thank goodness for black. He clutches the Master tightly to his chest and rises.

When Erik goes to put him to bed, Charles stirs again, says, “I was never like this, before you. Sometimes I think things, and think you’re thinking them. It’s difficult to tell the difference.”

The line of Erik’s mouth is a sharp thing, like a slash in granite, but it curves with all the fluidity and tenderness of a smile, nonetheless. “You’ve experienced everything I am, everything I’ve done. And not just me, besides. I don’t think it’s reasonable to expect yourself to remain unchanged.”

“Sometimes I think it’s just because of what has happened. My parents. Hank’s scandal, almost losing Raven forever. Making room in the mansion for others like myself who need a safe haven, knowing there are many more still unfound. I want things to remain the same, even though I know they must change. We can not exist this way forever.”

Erik says nothing, but Charles feels him there, by his side, as he drifts away.

\--

He dreams of Erik, of the contract they negotiated. He relives calling for Erik in a moment of hopelessness, desperate for help, just beginning to lose his grasp on Raven’s thoughts, cursing the day that she met Hank McCoy and let him put imprudent ideas into her head. It was right on the heels of his parents’ murder, and he thought, “I cannot lose her also.”

“What do you seek?” he’d asked.

“Protection,” was Charles’ reply.

That smirk that Charles has come to read so well was impossible for the demonic shape into which Erik had formed himself, but Charles could _feel_ it. “You understand the terms of payment?”

“You will kill me and consume my soul.”

“Then I trust you see the contradiction.”

“I need to find the ones responsible for my parents’ deaths. I need to find and eradicate the threat to my sister, and to the others under my protection. I need you to help me with this, and then I will give myself to you.”

He felt that presence considering, examining. And then out of the shadows, Erik formed. 

“A pleasure to meet you, Charles,” he said, and bowed.

\--

“Good morning, Lord Xavier.”

Erik bathes him this morning—he is surprised that Erik did not bathe him when they arrived home, forced him awake and into the tub or even scrubbed his unconscious form. Charles does not object. He sinks into the warmth, leans into the feeling of the brush on his back and Erik’s hands in his hair. By the end of the bath, the water is cool and all of the heat has transferred into Charles. It is a great effort to pull himself from the tub, and he is tempted to turn away from Erik’s amused gaze as he rises and awaits his clothing, but Erik is, as ever, resolutely professional.

“A shave this morning, sir?” Eriks prompts, hand burning on Charles’ shoulder as he directs him toward the chair. 

“Not this morning, I think,” Charles says, but allows himself to be pressed into the seat, as Erik lays the towel over his chest and still-unbuttoned shirt.

“Quite necessary,” Erik contradicts, and makes his point by scratching through the stubble on Charles’ neck. Charles squeezes his eyes shut.

“Very well.”

“It’s really quite overdue,” Erik says, mixing up the shaving foam and applying it to Charles’ face and neck with economic swirls of the brush, controlling it by the silver inlay of the handle. The razor, though, he picks up with his hands.

Erik usually favors blades when weapons are required of him. Charles can admit that he feels awe in regard to Erik’s precise control—knives are almost a part of him, his control over them is so fine. An extension of his awareness similar to Charles’ own talent. 

But his thoughts today are erratic, filled with the memories of last night’s rescue. Erik’s glee at holding the razor to Charles’ throat coincides with the memories of dispatching Azazel’s henchmen the night before. Charles finds his mouth watering. Erik’s mouth is open as he works, his eyes focused, his breathing dead-even and deep.

“Charles,” Erik murmurs, eyes fixed on where the blade rests against Charles’ skin. “You’re very tense this morning. I do hope you slept well.”

Charles swallows and feels his throat bob against the edge. “My injuries cause me little pain.” He knows there is little to be done for the ache in his ribs—but the bones are not broken, he can be grateful for that. His ankle, however, is in poor shape, and Erik has already fashioned for him a walking aid out of unused candlesticks. He assumes there is a visit to the doctor planned in the afternoon, despite the lack of urgency. Erik is cautious. He would not allow an infection to take away the right he is due.

A flash of disappointment. “Then you’ll not be needing the massage I had planned for later?”

Dear Lord. Charles swallows again, begins to shift in the chair but remembers the blade. “Perhaps. I shall see how I am feeling later.”

“You seem rather…strained.”

This has gone on long enough. “Just finish me, Erik, and let me be gone. Do not toy with me.”

Erik does not smirk. He looks at the razor in his hand, and sets it aside. He picks up a small pot of cool cream and gathers some into his hand, and begins rubbing it into Charles’ skin, his fingers strong and long enough to wrap around Charles’ throat so easily. When he smoothes the cream across Charles’ chin and the area beneath his nose, his fingers drag against Charles’ lips and Charles tenses a great deal indeed.

“Charles,” Erik says in a low voice, eyes focused on his work. “The extent to which you employ my services, the boundaries you place, are your own. The contract you’ve made has a very dear price—if I were you I would take advantage of it.”

Charles is overwhelmed with sentiments of possession and hunger, familiar to him after these seven long years in Erik’s company, and it takes him a moment to answer. “Be patient. No need to hurry me along to my death.”

“I was not intending a death of large significance.” Erik’s hand slides down Charles chest, catching on the silk of his nightclothes and pulling it against his skin in a smooth slide. He stops just underneath Charles’ navel, fingers bunching into the fabric.

“Charles.” It’s barely audible, and when Charles’ head falls back against the chair, when his breath escapes in a rush, he focuses on his hand there, just on the surface of Charles’ skin, and can think of nothing but how he’d like to go lower, feel the wet, pulsing heat as he sinks into Charles, feel the skin and muscle clenching around him.

“Erik. That’s enough.”

“Of course.” He removes his hand, and bows his head. “You know I wouldn’t, Charles. Not without your permission. Not until you give yourself to me.”

Yes, he knows. This is what he’s worried about. It’s so difficult to distinguish sometimes, what he wants from what Erik wants. Caution is the only option available to him.

“It seems I am closer than ever.”

“Hmm. Yes.”

Charles shivers. “To finding the ones responsible.”

“Ah.”

“You know what that means.”

“I do.” He flicks the foam from the blade and begins to put the shaving supplies back in order. He does not even need to look at Charles to do this, he’s well aware, but this time it feels as if it’s done on purpose. As if he doesn’t want Charles to ask the question he has been avoiding, for fear of the answer. He must ask it now. A few weeks’ time, at most—it will seem an instant, an eternity—he must be sure.

“Erik. Before it happens, will you allow me to say goodbye to my sister?”

Erik does not answer, and when Charles begins to rise, the steadying hand at his shoulder, the memory of the blade at his neck, makes him say, “Erik, please.”

“I will grasp you tightly in my arms,” Erik says, “and you may say whatever you like, to whomever. It will matter none to me.”

Charles searches his face, allows himself to breathe as Erik finally looks away, gathers his composure. “Thank you.”

Erik bows, smiles; “Of course, my Lord. It is my greatest pleasure to accommodate your desires.”

“Let’s not get cheeky now.”

\--

This time they don’t bother with kidnapping: Emma is very direct. He returns home from his visit to the doctor to find everything decorated in white—her calling card, a mental illusion that directs him to the room in which she awaits. 

“You’re not surprised,” is how she greets him. She is seated in one of Charles’ favorite chairs, her furs draped around her even though she surely doesn’t require the warmth of them in her diamond form. 

“Azazel was forthcoming in a way you had not anticipated, though I do applaud your shielding. The helmet was also a bit of a giveaway; did you design it yourself or did you have assistance?”

She smiles distantly.

“Ah, yes, of course.” He looks to Erik. _I need you to schedule another meeting with Hank McCoy._

To Emma, he says, “Raven has not yet arrived, Emma, and now she will not. Your time is wasted here.”

“I know that. I simply came to deliver a message.”

“From whom?” Charles asks.

“The Queen.”

Charles scoffs. “The Queen would not condescend to speak with you, Miss Frost. You have no title.”

“Of course she didn’t speak to me. She didn’t need to. Her actions speak loud enough.” She releases her body from its diamond state, and Charles takes a step back. What he can see of her skin is off-putting: her face is mottled with bruises, a large chunk of her hair missing, shaved away on one side to treat the head wound that undoubtedly lies under the gauze wrapping. The image is gone in an instant, as she returns to her diamond form, in which her injuries undoubtedly cause her less pain. Charles glances uncertainly to Erik.

“It was not him that caused this. The Queen has many dogs to run her errands.”

“Then why are you here?”

“As a warning. You will never be safe, Charles. We will always be persecuted for who we are.”

He understands her request, but what she implies is treason, disregarding the fact that a movement like that would incite revolution. She has just as much to lose as Charles, and for nearly the same reasons: as a telepath, she would be one of the first targets. Apparently, the Queen saw fit to remind her of this.

“You speak so highly of solidarity and yet you set our kind against each other.”

“Azazel was a thug. I should not have sent him.” She looks to Erik. Her expression is mild, and her mind lacks the heat of anger, but her voice is icy as she says, “I mistakenly thought his presence would curtail your impulses more effectively than if you were held captive by humans alone. I thought it would incite your curiosity.”

“Only my impatience,” Erik says acidly. Charles can feel it radiating from him. Impatience, annoyance, and also a strange sense of anticipation, but Erik does not respond to his probing inquiries, which is itself strange.

There is a question Charles must ask. “Then what need for the humans?”

“I believe you know the answer to that. I considered it a gift to you; it is unfortunate that you were unable to savor it.”

“All of them?”

“Every last one. They were not all involved directly. There are those who set the fire, and the facilitators; those who lured your parents into the trap, and those who subverted the investigation afterwards.”

Charles nods. “I appreciate your attention to detail.”

“But your family is still not safe, Charles, not while the Queen still directs us like the pieces of a game. Raven is the one person who could infiltrate her palace, get close enough.”

“Do not dare suggest it.”

“She’s our best hope.”

“She is a _child_.”

“Nobody can remain a child in war.”

“We can coexist peacefully amongst them, surely you must see that.”

“We should not be content to exist among them, to be judged for our traits inherent and then expected to serve with them and be grateful for our continuance.” Her every word is emphasized in his ears but they are loud in his chest as well. He feels Erik at his side.

She looks to Erik. “Have you not, Charles, made sacrifices and concessions for everything in your life?”

“To get what I want. That is the nature of compromise.” He looks to Erik. “I believe I have heard enough, Emma. I would suggest you see yourself out. My butler will assist you.”

“That will not be necessary.”

“It is not in your best interest to argue, Miss Frost,” Erik says placidly, but the metal cart in the corner of the room begins to rattle and wheel slowly forward.

“What adorable little tricks, Erik. I see you still have a penchant for drama.”

Charles does not allow himself to be startled by the new presence in the room, but next to him, Erik jerks defensively and Charles’ feels his grip on the metal of the room substantiate, readying it for use as a weapon.

“Now now, Erik, this one is off limits,” the man says, stepping up next to Emma’s chair and placing his hand on the seat back. It is, perhaps, Charles’ imagination that she shrinks from him slightly—he cannot read either of them, so he can’t be certain. 

The man is dressed in a butler’s uniform nearly identical to Erik’s, save for color: the fabric is rich and pristine, but a pure white. He finds himself thinking it is far out of Emma’s price range to keep her staff clothed in such fine garments, but then he remembers the way that Erik shifted into being before his eyes, formed from the darkness of that otherworld, wearing the exact outfit that Charles had imagined, perfect down to the matching little X pin that Charles wore.

“What a pleasant surprise to see you again, Sebastian.” Erik’s smile is polite, but inside he is seething. 

“Well, I decided I needed to get a telepath of my very own. See what all the fuss is about.” Sebastian raises his voice in obvious implication, and Emma glances sideways at him, showing a slight hint of unease. “Seven years, Erik.” He whistles, lowly, fixes Charles with a predatory smirk, eyes dull half-circles beneath his lids. “Must be one hell of a collector’s item. We all thought you’d have him before he turned 21.”

Charles looks from Erik to Sebastian. “It appears we’re evenly matched then, Emma.” 

She nods, and although he cannot read any emotion in her mind or countenance, she seems grim. “This will be an interesting game, indeed.”

-

“I could still kill her for you,” Erik murmurs as they see their uninvited guests out the front door. Even in her diamond form, Emma has difficulty carrying herself, and unlike Erik, Sebastian makes no move to help his Mistress. “Sebastian is impatient—he cannot break the contract but he will be eager to collect. Her terms can have nothing to do with you, or he would have acted against you right there.”

“She is not the true threat, and with her injuries, she herself is no longer a danger to my family. If she makes another move against me or my kin, perhaps I will revise my opinion, but as it stands, I am convinced that killing her would not bring me peace.”

“Peace? Is that what you seek?”

“Of a sort. I would simply like to depart this world with the knowledge that my sister is safe from the threat that stole my parents from me.” He remembers the promise Erik made and hopes Erik does as well. He longs to see his sister, to tell her…to tell her that she must seek her own path to peace. That she must create it herself.

Erik searches his face. He brushes a thumb across Charles’ cheek. When he withdraws his hand, his glove is stained darker with the droplet of blood Charles did not realize he was wearing, and he looks at it for a moment in disapproval, giving Charles the opportunity to avert his eyes. “You heard Emma. Your kind will always be persecuted for your differences.”

He’s sure his smile is wry, but at the moment he cannot manage otherwise, so he begins to walk, and Erik keeps pace beside him. “Always is a hopeless measurement. I am under no illusion that I may compete with always. If not safe, then safer.” 

“I will, of course, remain by your side until your goals are met.”

Charles begins to turn but stops himself. He has never needed to seek a truth through words, and can form none of his own; the inflection and punctuation are nebulous. Inarticulate.

Once more, he attempts to sift through the tangle of images at the forefront of Erik’s mind. There are many, but none of them advertise to him as they so often so. These are like ashes—he touches them and they collapse. Or perhaps ash is an inaccurate description, because the thoughts are voluminous but not insubstantial, and they don’t disintegrate on contact, but curl into themselves to hide from him, becoming smaller to divert attention elsewhere. It’s alarmingly effective, though such tactics have never worked before. The effort is more than a little frustrating, and leaves Charles at a loss in determining what length of commitment Erik is pledging. He could so easily collect his payment at once.

“And you will continue to obey my commands?”

“Til the very end. You know I must.”

He knows, then, that asking is inconsequential, yet the softness of Erik’s voice, the shyness of his mind, compels him. “You must, yes…but is it what you want?”

“It is essential to every thing that I want,” Erik says. “Your soul belongs to me, and I will not relinquish my claim to it.”

Charles nods. “It does indeed. Belong to you.”

Erik continues at his side but does not respond. A glance, however, reveals the line of his mouth, curved into a small smile. It is the same polite smile he offers with Charles’ tea, worn with the same steady assurance.


End file.
